


Snap

by sparxwrites



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Past Torture, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 20:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8682148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: Percy forgets, sometimes, that though he may be used to his scars - though Vox Machina may be used to his scars, after years of travelling with him, years of concerned, curious glances and unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air - other people are not. 
(In which Percy and Senokir have a little chat.)





	

Percy forgets, sometimes, that though he may be used to his scars - though Vox Machina may be used to his scars, after years of travelling with him, years of concerned, curious glances and unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air - other people are not. 

He’s reminded of this, somewhat forcibly, as they’re all changing into their rags in Senokir’s backroom. Having travelled together for so long, they have little shame around one another, and even with Senokir standing and watching they barely hesitate to shed their clothes for the tattered robes he’s provided them with. There’s no small amount of relief that comes with losing his heavy coat and thick waistcoat, Percy has to admit, peeling his sweat-drenched shirt away from his skin and discarding it. His clothing is made for icy Whitestone winters, not the high heat of the Fire Plane.

His relief, though, is rudely interrupted when he feels a hand press against his shoulder, smoothing curiously over the bumps and dips of the many neat, raised scars across his skin. It’s too large to be one of the gnomes, too small to be Grog, too hesitant to be one of the twins, and not familiar enough to be Keyleth, so-

Percy looks to his side, eyes narrowed, and sees Senokir stood abruptly and _uncomfortably_  close, petting his shoulder slow and easy with wide, curious eyes and an absent-minded smile.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” he says, voice icy cold, stepping away and drawing himself up to his full height. Senokir isn’t exactly gnome-small, but Percy is large for a human, and a full head taller than him. “I would… _greatly_ appreciate it if you kept your hands _off_  of me, thank you very much. We may be playing slaves, but we are _not_  your property, and I prefer people not to- to _paw_  at me.”

He expects Senokir to just stare and smile, the way he usually does, slightly vacant and undeniably creepy. He expects Senokir to maybe object, mild and almost-dazed, to having his touching described as _pawing._ He half-expects Senokir to reach in again and press a palm against the ragged mess of one shoulderblade, just to be contrary.

He does not, though, expect Senokir to hook fingers into the neck of his own robe and tug it down a little, humming thoughtfully to himself.

Senokir’s hands and face, the only part of him not covered by his robes, are a warm brown - not like the brown of Vex’ahlia’s, not with the warm glow of sunrise about him that Percy so loves about her, and most definitely not the cool dusty-brown of Vax. He’s a few shades paler than the twins, and with the tone of it edging more towards  _crimson_  than gold or grey, but he’s still far darker than Percy’s own peach-paleness. The skin beneath the robe, though, is… not quite the same. 

This skin, the newly exposed expanse of it, is more _white_  than brown, the space just below Senokir’s collarbones crosshatched with scars. Most are thin things, barely raised, just pale streaks, but some are larger, thicker, _nastier_. One is almost the width of Percy’s pinky finger, an ugly thing, unevenly raised and a shiny pink-grey.

“ _Snap_ ,” says Senokir, dreamily. He strokes a thumb over the mess of scars, thumbnail catching on their raised edges, pulling brief splotches of colour to the keloid-bleached surface of them. His gaze on Percy is unwavering, unnerving in its intensity, eyes dragging over Percy’s own surgically-precise marks in contrast to the tangle of his own. “We match. How nice.”

Percy is… not quite sure what to say to that. Justifiably so, he thinks, watching Senokir release the neck of his robes, watching the fabric slide and settle until the scars are hidden once more. He can’t help but wonder, morbidly, how far down the scars go. Whether they’re so thickly layered everywhere, or whether that patch was particularly dense. Whether whoever gifted Senokir’s scars to him eventually got bored of knives, as the woman who gifted his to him did, and started on the burns, brands, needles, pliers, drowning, _touching_ -

“Ah… yes,” he says, eventually, voice carefully steady, carefully measured. He tries to ignore Senokir’s smile, the slow widening of it, the fact it’s faintly open-mouthed and creepy and somehow incredibly  _genuine_  in its innocent happiness despite all of that. Instead, he pulls his rags over his head, hides his own scars, and tries, unsuccessfully, to banish the image of Senokir’s from the insides of his eyelids. “We- we do indeed. How…  _nice_.”

**Author's Note:**

> look, i just really love senokir, okay? precious little creepy fire plane dude that's permanently dissociative. my fave.
> 
> see more stuff i haven't gotten round to putting up here @sparxwrites on tumblr.


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